


Good Morning

by houndstooth_rabbit



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Philosophy, Physics, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9017977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndstooth_rabbit/pseuds/houndstooth_rabbit
Summary: Takes place just after the episode Rôti, Season 1. Hannibal's compassion for Will becomes an inconvenience for his well-laid plans. Will is struggling just to remain present.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ainosgarden as part of the 2016 Hannigram Holiday Exchange. 
> 
> Additionally, here's a YouTube playlist I put together full of things I listened to while working on this: <https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvmsT5X_HFwRH4Qg-3lpVb1PEt3yzVISP>

Will Graham lied motionless on his bed. Winston jumped up onto the mattress, sniffed at and licked his master's face, but it garnered no response. The dog sneezed and shook his fur, then settled on working his head into the crook underneath Will's chin. The other dogs were more content with amusing themselves in their own insular games near the fireplace, where the embers therein had long since burnt themselves out over the course of the previous evening.

Hannibal Lecter considered this scene as he momentarily paused preparations for breakfast in the kitchen and looked in on his patient. 

It was rather unlike Hannibal to backtrack. In the past he was certainly forced to improvise when obstacles presented themselves amidst carefully constructed stratagems. This, however, was as good as burning down a house during its final phase of construction. All that time and effort, gone, never to be seen again.

The thought made him think of the time that Lady Murasaki took him to the Ise Grand Shrine. All of the shrine buildings there were torn down and rebuilt every twenty years, since they were made entirely of wood and the Japanese cypress would naturally rot over time. Beyond this practical standpoint, however, Lady Murasaki preferred to emphasize the spiritual and philosophical intent inherent in this process: known as Shikinen Sengu, it played into the Shinto beliefs regarding the impermanence of all things. Death and new beginnings. The passing of knowledge from one generation into the next. The truth that can be found in nature itself.

In the wake of Will shooting Abel Gideon and the encephalitis raging into an inferno within a mind already as unstable as melting glass, Hannibal could not help but give in to his growing impulse to stop the dangerous physics he had put into motion. 

It was after his last session with Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier that Hannibal could no longer deny the deep misgivings that arose within him. 

"Will Graham does not present you with the problems of a normal life," Dr. Du Maurier observed.

"No, he doesn't."

"What does he present you with?"

"The opportunity for friendship," Hannibal replied simply.

"He's still your patient, Hannibal. When it comes to Will Graham, if your impulse is to step forward, you must force yourself to take a step back."

"And just watch him lose his mind?" He asked earnestly, as though this wasn't a part of his plan from the very start.

"Sometimes all we can do is watch."

Stepping into his car after their session, Hannibal found himself deeply uncomfortable with this prospect. Where before it would have piqued his professional curiosity, the slow degeneration of a brilliant mind, he realized that the high price of securing his own freedom and satiating his own desires was too high for the great loneliness that would follow. That this great singularity of a mind could possibly be destroyed forever as part of this equivalent exchange was a notion he could no longer entertain.

A firework is no longer interesting once the pyrotechnic compounds already burnt themselves up against the night sky.

When Will was collected to be taken to the hospital, his condition was a sorry one. The entire right hemisphere of his brain was likely already conquered by the viral infection. Because he had obfuscated the results of all of his medical tests and psychiatric examinations up until now, any kind of recovery for Will would be delayed as the doctors flailed about in trying to solve the mystery behind the man's complete break with reality.

He took it upon himself, as Will's doctor, to sign him out of the hospital and into his care. He could quietly administer the necessary antivirals and steroids while at the same time not implicating himself for all of his previous meddling. Jack was very agreeable in making sure all of this happened with as little interference as possible. After all, Will was completely useless in his current state. Anything that could speed up his recovery and get him back to work would have been seen as God answering all of Jack's prayers.

Hannibal recommended all of his other patients to other psychiatrists while he focused on Will's care, but still took on work from medical journals and the like that would be simple to complete without having to leave Will alone.

Temporarily living with Will in his humble abode in Wolf Trap was preferable to figuring out the logistical nightmare that was his pack of dogs if he weren't to return there. Besides that, being back in his own home provided Will with all of the small creature comforts that would likely be missing if he tried to take Will into his home in Baltimore.

It also provided him with the opportunity to discretely discard the evidence he originally planted in the home. It was one of the first things he took care of after moving in. He found that using the furnace of a nearby waste management facility in the dead of night to be most helpful in his endeavor.

Hannibal kept their breakfast warm on the stove as he let the dogs out. All were happy to explore the outside again except for Winston, who was now mirroring Will's lifeless disposition. 

"Breakfast's ready," he said softly, his hand gentle on Will's shoulder.

\--

The first thing his nerves registered as he became cognizant of his surroundings again was wet tile underfoot, smooth and warm. He could feel where dry skin and dirt still lingered between his toes, the hot air of water evaporating all around him. He could feel the pain in his hands, where the cracks that developed from the winter weather bit into him and drew small bits of blood. 

Next he became aware of the water hitting the small of his shoulders. He was hunched over, looking down. He realized he was sitting on something, a stool maybe. It was hard and uncomfortable.

"Will."

He instinctively wanted to look up at the voice, but moving at all seemed to be too large a task at that point.

"Will, can you hear me?"

He managed to part his lips in his next attempt at commanding his body, but only managed a sigh. He allowed his eyes to watch the water underneath him flow across the tiles and out of his line of vision.

"Nod if you can hear me, Will."

Will tried again. He bobbed his head slightly.

"Good. Don't be startled. I'm washing your hair. Close your eyes." 

He did so.

He felt the water at the top of his head as a foreign hand ran through his hair. 

Will heard the snap of something being opened. The smell of his cheap bottle of Prell filled his nostrils. He noticed that the water was redirected elsewhere, he could hear it against the tiles.

Two hands worked through his curls, creating a lather. The last time he could remember the sensation of someone else washing his hair, he must have been... seven, maybe eight. Was it his father who used to wash it for him? Had to have been, who else could it have been? Certainly not his mother. He never knew her.

_"Something so foreign about family. It's like an ill-fitting suit. I never connected with the concept."_

He knew he said these words, but can't remember when.

Everything still had sparks coming out from all directions. The heat of an overworked mind made his memory hot and delicate to sort through. 

_"I fear not knowing who I am."_

Another echo of his own words.

_"I don't know if I will ever be myself again."_

He can't remember if he said that. It may have been him. It may have been someone else. 

_"Who are you now?"_

_"Now I'm you."_

The sparks lessen into a din of static, into a kind of interference, into a kind of thing that could maybe be translated into something intelligible.  

_"Just those kind of people that shouldn't be in a relationship. You and I are already committed. It's hard to be with another person when you can't get out of your own head."_

A voice outside of his head said something. Rinsing. He felt the spray of water once more. The touch of that other hand wading into his locks made reality a little more tangible again.

He knew these things. That hand. That voice. But the name was harder to pin down. 

_"You have me as your gauge."_

It wasn't a name he said often. And when he did say it, it wasn't a first name. Usually it was a last name. Did he ever use the first name? He's said his own full name aloud more times than the other man's. 

Funny that.

Almost curious at this point, he wrapped his tongue around the familiar phrase. "My name..." he managed, voice very soft as it competed with the running water.

He could feel the other presence suddenly stop.

"My name is Will Graham," he said, a little surer. "I'm not sure what time it is... but I think I'm in my own bathroom... in my own house." He paused. "And I can only guess... at this point... that I am alive."

Will managed to turn his head, finally seeing the other person across from him.

"Hello, Will," the other said. He wished he could discern what his look meant. Maybe it didn't mean anything. Maybe it meant everything. Decoding human emotion was too high of a task at that moment to complete with any sort of certainty. 

"... Dr. Lecter," Will said upon recognition.


	2. Chapter 2

Will slept underneath fresh linens, his curls still damp against his face.

Hannibal stood near the foot of Will's bed as he considered him.

Like someone thrown out into an inhospitable sea, Will would somehow manage his way up to the surface for air, only for the waves to take him in again. Still, each time was progress. Each time, a little more lucid for a little bit longer. 

So Hannibal kept telling himself.

Buster tried to gnaw at Winston's face. Winston barked once, which was enough to get Buster to back off. The sound did not cause Will to stir.

Hannibal finally made his way to unstack the twin-sized sleeper into a proper queen-sized bed so that he could start getting some sleep of his own. He was thankful that, despite the dogs all being strays, they somehow managed to not be nearly as disruptive in the night as one would expect.

... Usually. Buster seemed to have an on and off habit of trying to sleep on his face. He was not a terribly bright dog. And the outdoor predators were definitely sensed by the nervous pack on certain evenings, filling the still air with tense whimpers and growls.

Living in Will's tiny home was certainly an adjustment. In many ways, he was still adjusting. 

He began to think of what he would like to do, once Will was better. But he also feared what Will might do, once he was better. 

It was only a matter of time, of course. It was why he wanted to frame him, after all. 

But maybe it would be alright. He could see it in Will. He could see a kinship in him. Maybe he could find a way to make him understand. Who could better understand than an empath?

He already made his choice. He would just have to adapt at each turn and accept the risk as best he could.

He promised himself in the event that Will just wasn't coming back, wasn't able to recover, or, if he did recover, but couldn't see things his way, he certainly wouldn't put that mind to waste. He would savor it in the only way he could. 

It would be only the second time he had to devour someone he truly cared about.

\--

In Will's dream, the smell of gasoline was overwhelming. He realized it was because he was swimming in it. He was doing well enough trying to keep it from entering his mouth, trying to keep himself buoyant, trying not to drown.

Eventually his arms and legs gave out. It came into his ears and nostrils. Slick and awful, he couldn't even get out a scream. He was choking on that oily darkness.

He woke up in a start, a coughing fit barreling out, wreaking havoc at the stillness of the late hour. His mind and body were still under the false impression that he was dying. 

He turned to his side as he gasped for air, his heart pounding. Sweat-soaked, he strained his eyes in the darkness for clues as to where he currently found himself. The shapes of his dogs stirring at his commotion. The faint moonlight streaming in from the windows. The blue digital glow of his alarm clock, 4:12 A.M.

Home, he thought to himself. He pushed himself up, thirst claiming him. He shuffled out of bed, managing to get himself to standing without incident. His feet padded softly against the floor as he made his way to the kitchen. He could hear little paws following after him. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, procured a couple of aspirin, and turned on the kitchen faucet. The water tasted sweet against his parched tongue.

As he returned to his bed, he took note of something else that originally eluded him upon waking. He never remembered getting that piece of furniture. That was new. 

Someone else was there, lying on top. Perhaps other people would have been startled at a potential stranger being in their house. It didn't seem like a stranger, however. Considering the scene, it seemed like they had been here a while now.

Will gradually made his way closer. When he came to be about a foot away, he bent over for a better look.

He found eyes looking back at him, watching.

"A bad dream?" The other person asked, tone slightly clinical but not unconcerned.

Will's ears perked up in recognition. "Yes."

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No."

"Are you cold?"

Will was completely unaware that he had been shivering. "... Yes," he admitted. 

"I'll get you a blanket."

His legs feeling a little weaker, Will took to sitting on the foreign piece of furniture. His mind buzzed, on the verge of remembering again the identity of this person who managed to fit themselves into his little dollhouse of a home.

"Here," Will heard him say, soft fibers draping over his shoulders. Instinctively Will grasped at the blanket and drew it tightly around himself. 

"... Thank you." He looked up at him. He wanted to laugh. Of course. How could he forget? "I must be losing time again. Since when did you move in?"

"A few weeks ago," Hannibal provided, sitting next to him. "You're recovering from a severe case of encephalitis."

"Encephalitis?"

"Yes. It failed to show up in all of the previous testing. But, in your best interest, I signed you out of the hospital and started treatment in your home. You were in a very delicate state of mind after the incident with Dr. Abel Gideon."

Will could not shake the feeling that Hannibal was purposely omitting something. He put that aside as something he would have to investigate further, when he wasn't still plagued by the echoes of night terrors and the Herculean effort of piecing together his current circumstances. 

"... I didn't kill him, did I?"

"No. He is still very much alive."

"Alana?"

"She's fine. Very concerned about you, of course. The same can be said of Abigail. We can arrange for them to visit, once you're strong enough."

"And Jack?"

"I will be slow to inform him of your recovery. He is all too eager to put you back to work, as soon as possible. It is my professional opinion that we put that on pause... indefinitely."

Will nodded. "I appreciate that."

"Can I get you something to go back to sleep?"

"I don't know..."

"How about just 0.5 milligrams of lorazepam. It'll calm your nerves as well as your mind."

"I"m leery of benzos."

"This is very mild, especially when compared to something like Xanax."

Will sighed. "Fine. You're my doctor, after all. I am willingly putting myself into your hands."

Hannibal patted Will's knee as he rose. "I'll be right back."

\--

As Hannibal stepped back in from the kitchen, Will was trying his best to pry off his soaked shirt. When he had trouble getting it over his head, Hannibal put aside the medication and water that he had brought with him to lend Will a hand. Accomplishing that, Will fumbled toward his dresser, pulling out a replacement for himself.

"Can I sleep here?" He asked, gesturing to Hannibal's sleeper as put the new shirt on. "I always sweat so much when I... my sheets are still wet..."

"You do what you like. There is enough room."

Will took the tiny pill and downed it with the water, setting the glass aside.

Hannibal watched as Will pulled back the sheets of the sleeper and carefully hid himself like a snail in its shell, seeming comfortable despite not having a pillow to rest his head on.

Hannibal walked over and eased himself underneath the sheets. "Would you like to use my pillow?"

"No, that's alright," Will replied back, his voice muffled and his back towards Hannibal. 

Hannibal nodded. "Good night, Will."

"... Good night," Will said softly in return.

Hannibal looked up at the ceiling. He listened intently as Will's breath became even and shallow, a comforting white noise as Hannibal joined him in his slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

If Will had any other dreams, he couldn't remember them. He was deeply thankful for that.

He turned his head and studied Hannibal. This was the first time he had ever seen the man asleep. He wondered if Hannibal was dreaming at all, and if so, what was he dreaming of? It had to have been better than his own persistent nightmares, surely.

He wished he could bottle it, that stillness, that sense of peace. Distill it and reproduce it. Consume it.  His own body, in contrast, always seemed to vibrate with little earthquakes. Nothing seemed to shake Hannibal. Will was deeply envious of this.

Will kept looking, kept trying to commit it to memory, this feeling. The absence of fear. Releasing the strain in his muscles. Not having to fight so damn hard, not having to grit his teeth and bear the contradictions between the current moment and what his mind kept trying to paint in the background. 

He couldn't remember the last time he felt this relieved, this light. He didn't know if this feeling would stay. Probably not. Usually these things were impermanent, like anything else.

But maybe it would come back again. Maybe it could be repeatable, persistent even.

His mind had spent so much time tracing back and reconstructing moments of destruction that trying to deconstruct something simple like this, a pleasant and lazy morning, was like trying to ask a two-year old about the finer points of the work _Unreality of Time_ by J. M. E. McTaggart. 

Will gave up on this pursuit and decided to just fall back asleep again. For once, perhaps the darkness would not follow him. Or if it did, could it perhaps just try to keep its distance, enough so that he wasn't either dying or killing someone else in a reality that didn't even exist.

Thankfully, for the time being, he would not be forced to look at those things. The photographs. The crime scenes. The bodies. If he was lucky, perhaps he won't ever have to again.

\--

Hannibal could tell how happy the prospect of Alana and Abigail's visit next week made Will. He was starting to do simple chores again around the house. These might have even been chores that he did with little regularity long before the onset of the encephalitis. 

Other than that, Will occupied himself with his dogs, doing some maintenance on his sail, and making new fishing lures. He wondered aloud as to the disappearance of some of his previous ones. By his own account, Hannibal claimed that nothing on Will's work desk had been touched.

The FBI Academy all the while managed to find a replacement to take over Will's teaching responsibilities. 

"Do you think you'll go back to teaching?" Hannibal asked him.

"I'm not really sure. I think I'd prefer... not to."

"I don't blame you. I'm sure that even just discussing the subject matter would be triggering for you." Hannibal placed a bookmark where he stopped and closed the book in his hands. _The Critique of Judgment_ by Immanuel Kant. He always liked to revisit it every now and again when he felt it relevant to his current situation, like any of his other books. 

He walked toward Will's work desk. "What would you rather be doing?"

"As gainful employment, you mean?" Will asked back, not looking up from where he was securing a feather from an Eastern Bluebird to the fish hook in front of him. "Or are you trying to get at the meat of what my deepest hopes and dreams are?"

"Whichever you feel most comfortable answering."

Will used scissors to cut off the excess string. "I'd like to go sailing again. I've done some maintenance on the motor, but I really need to go over the entire boat. Everything that's been going on up until now has made me more than a little neglectful."

"Any destinations in mind?" Hannibal asked him.

"Not really. Just being out there, on the water... I think it would be nice to teach Abigail how to sail... it can be tricky starting out, but I think she would be able to catch on quickly."

Someone knocked on the door. With his work desk facing the front windows of the house, Will could see that the uninvited visitor was Jack Crawford.

Hannibal did not say a word, only gestured for Will to not move an inch. He could tell that it was Will's instinct to do otherwise, but he nonetheless obeyed as he watched Hannibal answer the door.

"How long did you think it was going to take before I knew?" Jack started. 

"Good afternoon to you, too, Jack."

"I orchestrated his release because you promised that you would be able to treat him and get him back to work as soon as possible. Because you claimed you knew about something that the other doctors missed. Because you said that it would take too much time for them to catch up with your diagnosis, and that we would lose valuable time before they could even begin starting the necessary treatment. And I trusted you, because the doctors at the hospital really were that clueless. And now—" Jack stopped mid-sentence, distracted by his own rage that had reached its boiling point. "Does saving the lives of innocent people just not matter to you?"

"The only promise I made was to my patient's wellbeing."

"No. If you back out on your word—"

"You were complicit in using highly unorthodox means in getting Will released into my care. You have nothing to threaten me with that wouldn't raise problems for yourself," Hannibal cautioned.

"Then how about I talk to the man himself."

"By 'talk,' you mean bully him back into a job that nearly robbed him of his sanity. By 'talk,' you mean intimidation, coercion, and manipulation. While my patient has continued to show progress, it is my professional recommendation that he not re-enter the Chesapeake Ripper investigation, or work any other cases at this point in time. In his current state, this is a man that would prove to be a liability for the FBI, rather than an asset. Or perhaps you yearn for yet another public embarrassment documented by the mass media?"

Jack peered through the window and straight at Will. The great displeasure in his eyes could cut the glass separating them.

"Surely the FBI has other qualified individuals to be put on this case," Hannibal cut in, both with his words and in front of Jack's line of vision.

"None like Will Graham," Jack said lowly. "You and I both know that."

"Of course. But the Will Graham you want is no longer available. I suggest you spend your time vetting a new candidate to help with your investigation rather than wasting your time and the Bureau's money coming out here."

Jack shook his head. "Fine. Go back to playing house. But I've got myself a killer to catch. Hope you can rest easy at night, letting that monster continue to roam free because you have ass-backward priorities."

Hannibal smiled. "I sleep quite well, I assure you. Best of luck to you, Jack."


	4. Chapter 4

Will woke up screaming. He couldn't stop. He could feel the hot, salty tears pouring out, how swollen it felt under his eyes because so many had already escaped. He was vaguely aware of his dogs' distress at this, alternatively some joining him. He radiated like a comet crashing down to earth. He gagged on the spit that got stuck on the back of his throat. 

Soon, he realized that he was no longer on the bed, but instead in midair. 

It wasn't until the spray of ice-cold water came down all around Will that he heard him.

"I'm here. It's going to be alright."

Will did his best to breathe, keeping his head down, but it was hard. He felt so dizzy. His whole body shook. 

"Don't... _let me go back there_ ," he pleaded, the words edging out in a dying gasp. He grasped hold of one of his upraised knees, he had to have been directly on the floor of his shower.

"I won't," Hannibal promised.

After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the screech of the shower handle as it turned. 

The water stopped.

"Will, I want you to do something for me. I want you to slowly breathe in as I count to six. Can you do that?"

Will sighed, his tears still hot against a face bitten by the cold.

"Nod if you can do that for me," Hannibal persisted. 

Will gritted his teeth, nodding. 

"Alright, I'm starting now. One, two, three, four..."

Will started to inhale, coughing part of the way. When Hannibal reached "six," he said, "Now I want you to hold your breath until the count of seven, as best as you can. One, two, three, four..."

As Will held his breath, his heartbeat ran like a piston in his ears, pumping too fast for his brain to comprehend, his blood running far away from his frontal lobe and toward the rest of his extremities instead, preparing his body for fight, flight, or freeze.

"Now I am going to count to eight, and I want you to slowly exhale. One, two, three, four..."

Exhaling, Will's brain finally registered Hannibal's hand gripping his shoulder. He raised his own hand toward it, gripping tightly as soon as his fingers made contact.

"And now we're going to repeat that whole sequence again, breathing in to the count of six. One, two, three, four..."

\--

As Hannibal helped Will back into bed, Will's lips continued move but made no sound. Hannibal knew it would be some time before Will could work his way out from the depths of his mind, but at least now he was beginning to come down from the intense hysteria that gripped him before.

"Will," Hannibal began, sitting at the edge of the mattress, "there was a chapter written by Stephen Hawking in his book _A Brief History of Time_ called The Uncertainty Principle. It describes how the speed and position of a particle cannot be found at the same time. When shining a high frequency light at a particle, the light can be used to find its position, but the particle's speed will remain unknown, since the light itself will change the speed of the particle. When using a lower frequency light, the light can find the speed of the particle, but the particle's position will remain unknown. 

"I say all of this as another way of reiterating that I may not always know where you are, or how fast you may be traveling in the expanse of your darkness. But I will keep tuning the frequency of my light to catch up to you."

Will's lips stopped moving. Suddenly his eyes shifted, head turning to Hannibal.  "Are you trying to use physics... to say the same thing as that pop song... 'I'll follow you until you love me'...?"

"Thankfully I can say that I am not the 'paparazzi.' That would be Freddie Lounds, who I have thus far managed to dissuade from even approaching your home."

"How did you manage that? I'm sure she would have been chomping at the bit, documenting the steep mental decline of one of the lead investigators on the Chesapeake Ripper case and making the FBI look like they have their thumbs up their asses..."

"I have my ways," Hannibal answered, noncommittal. "Sometime I might even tell you, but not tonight. I'm going to get another dose of lorazepam for you and then we're going to do our best to get you some sleep."

After Hannibal came back to administer the medication, Will took it without protest. As Hannibal rose to return to his own makeshift bed, Will clasped onto Hannibal's wrist, a death grip. 

"Stay. Please."

Hannibal turned to him.

"I sleep better..." Will continued, "when you're right next to me..."

"You needn't explain. I already told you..." Hannibal retreated into Will's space, crawling on top of his mattress, his face above his, "I'm here."

"You remind me that I exist. My brain keeps trying to convince me that I shouldn't."

"I'll continue reminding you, then."

"Can you remind me why I should...? Exist..."

"I can give you many reasons. The trick is finding the reasons that are persuasive enough for your brain, which at any moment can halt and catch fire. But I can be very persuasive, I'm confident in saying that much."

Will paused, seeming to evaluate his current environment for a while, his hand on Hannibal's chest. Hannibal reached out to Will's face. 

"I'm going to be blunt because your mind needs to hear this," Hannibal said. "There is no one I have ever encountered like you. You see things other people can't. You put together pieces that other people would never think to put together. Your imagination is so perfect and powerful that it changes you, hurts you. But I don't like imagining a life without you, having met you."

"Hannibal..."

"So I'm in turn asking you to stay. For as long as you can."

Hannibal searched Will's eyes but they remained dull, cloudy.

"Again, I'm going to be blunt. So that your mind doesn't misunderstand. I need you as much as you need me. I need you to understand that to your very bones. Because I do love you. I loved you since I first laid eyes on you. Whether or not you love me I find to be inconsequential. Whether you fall in love with me or someone else or no one is not a thing that I care about. But I want you to know. This is how I feel about you."

"... I," Will struggled, "I don't know how I feel..."

"I don't expect you to. I want you to know you can feel however you want. I don't mind. I'll be here regardless."

"I'm sorry. Getting tired..."

"It's alright, Will. We both need our sleep. Just know that you are loved, and that this fact is an important consideration in and of itself. I love you, Will Graham."

Hannibal kissed Will's forehead then shuffled to the other side of the bed to reach for the light on the bedside table. 

\--

Will woke up facing Hannibal. He was still asleep on his side.

He hated himself because all he could feel was emptiness. He was offered a cup of love, but he couldn't even bring his lips close enough to drink from it.

His mind started to go to other places. Middle school, a clumsy attempt at kissing that girl in English who he thought was interested in him but, inevitably, came to find himself deeply mistaken on that matter. High school, trying to ask his long-held crush to prom, with her dry response being, "Let me ask my boyfriend first." The fumbling around during college; trying to be a cop and failing in Louisiana; all the unsatisfying encounters at bars and other places he just didn't like to be at but nonetheless felt compelled to go to, where else was he going to find someone...?

Alana, the fireplace. Alana, applying the breaks.

It was as though his emotional range had been greatly diminished into a very narrow spectrum. There was only deep loathing. He had no desire because, ultimately, he felt unfit for consumption.

And that wasn't even addressing the real world problems this all presented. Surely this wouldn't look good for Hannibal, being so intimate with a patient... if this ever got out...

He realized it said a lot, for the patient to be preoccupied with this rather than his therapist. 

It was starting to feel like Alana all over again, but this time he was the one with misgivings about how ethical all of this could possibly be. He was also potentially the one to be giving the bitter gift of rejection. And, truthfully speaking, he did have naive notions that he would try again with Alana, if he could just prove to her that he was better so she didn't have to worry, didn't have to make her feel like she had to betray her moral compass. Try again. Try again. Try again.

But how long was he going to be like this?

There was no way around this. He would have to let go of that little bit of hope. It would be selfish not to. He'd put her through enough, and she already gave him her answer.

Will rose carefully out of bed, trying to disturb neither Hannibal nor his dogs. He grabbed his glasses and a throw blanket from one of his chairs and wrapped himself in it. He padded his way to front door, barefoot, and exited out to his front porch. 

It was snowing.

He brushed off where some snow managed to collect on his rocking chair overnight, then sat in it, watching the snowflakes fall down softly to earth. 

Will appreciated snow's ability to swallow up all the sound. Less chaos, more stillness. 

He brought his knees up to his chest so that the blanket could reach his legs. He watched as his warm breath materialized against the cold air.

"Will."

Will turned slightly at the sound of his name. "I'm sorry," he said to Hannibal. "I hope I didn't worry you."

"No. I hope my confession hasn't caused you discomfort."

Will shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. "I worry about what this could do to you... professionally."

"I have a plan for that, you needn't worry..." Hannibal paused. "If that is an avenue you wish to pursue," he was careful to add.

"I just..." Will cocked his head to one side, trying to find the words. "I just can't seem to feel anything."

"You're still in shock, Will. I know that Jack's visit has brought up things you've been trying very hard not to think about. What you're experiencing is not at all abnormal. Just give yourself some time."

"I just keep feeling like I'm losing time."

Hannibal drew closer to Will. Hannibal still had on his pajamas, but his robe and slippers looked very cozy in the winter chill.

"You may be feeling like you'll be losing time for a while. You will feel off-balance for a while. But I have faith that your brain will learn to compensate and eventually return to baseline. Just be kind to yourself as much as you can."

"It's hard to be kind to myself when I feel like a broken machine."

"You're neither a machine, nor are you broken. You are human, and you have the capacity for thought as well as the capacity to feel, to bleed. Aside from more philosophical discussions on things such as artificial intelligence, machines generally are not capable of these things."

Will moved to standing, still clinging to the blanket around his shoulders. It was the smallest he ever felt in his life. 

"Remember... how you said you were fairly confident in the art of persuasion?" Will asked, studying the naked branches of a nearby tree rather than looking at Hannibal.

"Yes."

Will finally made direct eye contact with Hannibal. "Use your rhetoric on me then. Give me your Aristotle to match your Socrates. All I have been able to feel lately are echoes. Of my memories, of my dreams, of my fears... I'm tired of being stuck in my own head. Make me feel something different. Make me..." Will stepped forward, very close to him now, "... feel _you_."

Hannibal brought Will in even closer in response to the challenge issued to him. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Will put his hand on Hannibal's chest, as he did last night, registering the warmth there.

"I don't know what I want," he replied honestly, one hand still clinging to the soft fabric that provided only minimal protection against the elements. "But at this point I'm willing to try anything."

"Do you trust me, then, Will?"

"Yes. You're the eye of the storm. The immovable object that meets an unstoppable force. I wish... I could have that quality you have. I keep wondering how I could achieve that."

"What kind of quality is that?"

"Being at peace with yourself. With others. Not... falling to pieces so easily," Will laughed at himself, the sound of which rang with the rancor he held so strongly against his own person.

"It isn't easy. I've been through a lot, as have you. But I also had more help along the way than you have. You've done very well hanging on for this long, despite the odds being against you. I hope you understand that, someday."

Will's mind wriggled, instinctively rejecting his kind words but hungering for them all the same. "I hope you'll forgive me if this ends up being a failed experiment in the end."

"There is nothing to forgive when there are no expectations. Now, if you're ready, I want you to close your eyes."

Will could feel the bits of snow underfoot, melting against the balls of his exposed feet. A hand at his back, another at his face, positioning him. Anticipation made his throat dry. 

Will expected it to feel far more foreign than it did. Why should it have been? All along, he subconsciously depended on this man's tactile interference whenever his mind threatened to knock itself out of reality's orbit and into that of his collapsed heart, a black star that had grown so large in his chest and which threatened to swallow him whole. This kiss was just another extension of that. 

Will deepened it, his hands reaching up to Hannibal's face. He could feel a stray breeze blow some wayward snowflakes against his face. A few caught on his eyelashes, some on his brow, still more in his hair. He broke for a moment to breathe then went back in again, deeper. 

He wasn't sensitive to his own heart beating within this pocket of time. He forgot about the cold, the snow, the black star and its gravitational pull. He forgot about ghosts that used to be a part of the living and ghosts that had never even lived. 

What he did comprehend was a nonjudgmental love. One without a knife hiding in the other hand, one without fingers crossed and making insincere promises. No threats of humiliation, denunciation, or abandonment. No surprises. No pain.

Will was as shocked as Hannibal when he broke away and started sobbing.

"Will—"

"Sorry... just..." His voice was breaking. He started crumbling to down to the wet, wooden floor of his patio, bringing his hands to his eyes in an attempt to stop the inevitable crying jags which he knew would come, with or without his protests. He brought his head to his knees, desperately trying to contain himself. "I just wish... I could've... _met you sooner_."

He felt Hannibal's arms all around him. "What matters is that we met at all."


End file.
